PREETI MAHESHWARI
When I arrived in New Zealand in 2018, everyone back home imagined I had landed in paradise. They pictured clean streets, open skies, green parks, and a safety so effortless it seemed like something from a film. They weren’t wrong — all of that is here.
What they didn’t imagine was the silence. The kind that seeps into your life, settles in your bones, and, if you’re not careful, begins to hollow you out.
Life here runs on precision. People queue in perfect lines, everything runs on time, and shop assistants greet you with a smile that never crosses into your personal space. At first, that order felt like a relief — no chaos, no unsolicited advice, no constant hum of voices. But, in time, I began to notice the other side. Conversations rarely go beyond the weather, pets, and weekend plans. Friendships take years to ripen, and even then they stay politely at the surface. No neighbour ever knocks on your door, no one drops in unannounced, and no friend calls on a whim to say, “chai’s ready.” With your neighbours, it’s just a quick wave and a “hi” as you pull your car out of the driveway. And then, it’s just you — your own company and the endless quiet.
Evenings That End Before They Begin
Evenings here carry their own strangeness. By 6 p.m., most of the city is closed. By 7 p.m., people are in their pyjamas, winding down for the night. The streets are so still you can hear your own footsteps. There is no nightlife — not in the way I grew up with in Ranchi. No midnight samosas or chow mein from a street cart at Albert Ekka Chowk, even at 10 p.m. No music spilling from balconies, no bursts of laughter slicing through the night. Here, night is for retreat, not connection. If you’re still new, those hours between sunset and sleep can feel unbearably long.
Politeness with a Wall Behind It
Politeness here is almost a national currency — people hold doors open, thank bus drivers, and smile at strangers. Yet beneath that courtesy, I have felt the quiet sting of something colder. At work, I’ve seen small hesitations. Sometimes, it wears the faintest shadow of racism. Not the crude kind from films — no slurs, no raised voices — but a softer, subtler kind. It’s in the way conversations politely close before they deepen. I’ve seen job applications vanish into the void until I “Westernise” my name. It’s the invisible wall between “you” and “us.” People are friendly in public but rarely invite you past the threshold of their home.
I’ve learned to navigate it quietly. I no longer expect warmth where there’s only politeness. I tell myself this is just the way it is — people here keep their circles small. But deep down, I know that sometimes, it is personal.
Cooking My Way Back to Belonging
To fill the emptiness, I work a full-time job. But even that wasn’t enough to keep the loneliness from creeping in. So I started a cloud kitchen — partly to share the food I grew up with, but mostly to anchor myself to something warm and familiar. Cooking became my therapy. Every order I send out is more than just food — it’s a piece of home, wrapped in foil and paper. It gives me a reason to talk to people, to exchange smiles, to feel like I belong, even if only for a few minutes. In those moments, I’m not just another foreigner trying to fit in — I’m someone offering comfort in a place that can often feel cold.
Paradise, But Not Without Loss
There are days I am grateful — for the safety of walking alone at night, for the smell of rain on grass, for the quiet mornings broken only by birdsong. And there are days when the emptiness cuts deep — birthdays spent alone. These festivals feel like careful re-enactments with no incense in the air, no uncles arguing politics, and no real connection afterwards. Celebrations here are tidy and polite. You arrive, smile, and leave. No one lingers.
Even most of the Indians I’ve met here seem to have changed with the place. The same polite distance has replaced the warmth and spontaneity I once expected I see everywhere else. Invitations are rare, conversations stay on the surface, and the familiar sense of community I long for is harder and harder to find. It’s as if the silence of this land seeps into everyone, no matter where they’re from.
The Escape No One Talks About
My cousins tell me New Zealand is paradise. And it is — but paradise, I’ve learned, has its thorns. Most NRIs will understand this — the strange duality of living in a place that offers safety, beauty, and opportunity, yet quietly asks you to surrender the warmth, chaos, and connection that life in India gives so freely. You learn to carry two homes in your heart — one you live in, and one that lives in you.
I didn’t come here chasing adventure. I came to escape. Back home, I had a job — not particularly rewarding — family, and a familiar rhythm, but also a mother-in-law whose relentless criticism turned life into a daily test I could never pass. If women like her learned to treat daughters-in-law with respect, perhaps their sons wouldn’t feel the need to cross oceans or “start listening to the wife.” You didn’t marry off a toddler — you raised a man capable of choosing. Sometimes that choice will be different from yours. That isn’t manipulation; it’s maturity.
